


the boys i mean are not refined

by storytellingape



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Coming of Age, Lacrosse, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Soft Boys, Teen Romance, Tutoring, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 14:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13296657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellingape/pseuds/storytellingape
Summary: Boarding School AU - Ben Solo is the hotheaded star of the school's lacrosse team and Hux tutors him to earn some extra credit. The rest is history.





	the boys i mean are not refined

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first Kylux fic I've ever written, and I'm... very nervous about dipping my toes into a fandom with such great talent. Anyway: it is what it is. I hope you like it! I hope this premise hasn't been done yet; if it has it's escaped my notice. Ben and Hux are teenagers in this though it goes without saying. 
> 
> Do come say hi to me [on twitter](https://twitter.com/softgingertwink)!
> 
>  
> 
> **EDIT: POSTED THE UPDATED VERSION. I skimmed this one and noticed it was the draft and missing bits. >_<**

 

* * *

 

 

The truth is Hux has been aware of Ben Solo for awhile, though they hardly ever interacted outside accidentally elbowing each other that one time in the mess hall. 

Most people steer clear of him because of his infamous temper. But most people aren’t Hux, who is on special assignment from Sloane and promised a letter of recommendation to the university of his choice after he helps Ben Solo pass Pre-Calc solely so he can play lacrosse and win them state championship. 

Hux is in the library, a couple of hours before curfew, drumming a pen against a legal pad he’d brought along with him as he waits for Ben Solo. He’s late, but Hux had expected that. Nothing about this set-up is ideal as it puts a dent in the timetable he’d long since perfected. If he didn’t have to babysit Ben Solo, he would be working on homework, getting a head start on that essay due by the end of the week. 

Hux had attempted to take a stab at it, going as far as powering on his laptop, but he’s too skittish about this first meeting, annoyed with himself for falling for Sloane’s half-baked promise of putting a word in with Ben Solo’s mother who sits as vice dean of the academy and who can possibly — _possibly_ being the operative word — write him a letter of recommendation if things go swimmingly. Not that Hux really needs it, but it would make things easier when the time came to apply for uni. 

It’s late when Ben Solo deigns to show up, the light outside turned a honey colour as students begin shuffling out of the library for the 7PM call time for dinner. Hux is ready to throw his hands up and call it a day when Ben Solo slinks into the library, and Hux only takes notice of him after a deep voice above him says, “Are you Armitage Hux?” in a tone that both rankles and startles him out of the half-doze he’s managed to fall into waiting. 

Hux drags his gaze away from his blinking cursor. The screen is blank, and has been for the last half hour since he started the document and convinced himself he could do some work. He folds his laptop shut and glances up at Ben Solo, too out of it to remember to school his expression into something a little more neutral and approaching, well, not overly hostile. 

So this is Ben Solo: a year below him and already filled in places and broader than Hux who still fits into some of his old clothes from seventh grade. He looks cocky, uncaring, and uninterested all at once — all these things Hux had expected of him but it’s the realization that Ben Solo looks _young_ that knocks him off kilter. He’s wearing his hair longer than regulation allows, messy and lank and hiding the scar that cuts diagonally through his eyebrow and ends at the fat of his cheekbone, a souvenir from a fight with those boys from New Republic. Hux had heard about it, of course, the story skewed with the smaller details lost; the entire school had talked about it for months until it had all been swept under the rug. 

Ben Solo would be in a reform school if it weren’t for the fact he is the star player of the lacrosse team, the school’s only fighting chance to make it to finals. There’s also a bit of nepotism involved: his family’s donations are solely responsible for the new science building. 

“Ben,” Hux says carefully. “Solo?” He has the mind to thrust out his hand like this is a business transaction but then thinks better of it and remains seated. “You’re late,” he says instead. “I thought we were supposed to meet at four.” He makes a show of glancing at the clock. 

“Yeah, well, I had practice,” Ben says petulantly, following Hux’s gaze towards the clock, seemingly annoyed to be called out so openly. His bottom lip twitches when he looks back at Hux. Ben is tall for his age, and could assert himself as taller than Hux, but he holds himself at such a slouchy angle like he can’t be bothered with posture. This, coupled with his complete lack of remorse for wasting Hux’s time, should be infuriating but Hux is only mildly disappointed that Ben is almost exactly as he’d predicted. Spoiled, entitled. He knows Ben’s type. He’s spent the last five years avoiding it. 

“Right,” Hux says, “I wasn’t informed you were going to be held up.”

“Snoke kept me on the field to train the newbies,” Ben cuts in, as if this means anything to Hux. Snoke must be Ben’s coach. Sloane had mentioned speaking to the coach of the lacrosse team about this special project after he’d come to her with an unusual request. She was head of the Math Department and had volunteered Hux because he’d always been her best pupil.

The dinner bell chimes, pivoting Hux’s attention once again to the clock. 

“It’s almost dinnertime,” he says, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He’d lost a good chunk of time thanks to Ben Solo’s _faffing_. He starts to file his things back into his book bag, vehemently ignoring the intensity of Ben’s stare starting to sear his face. “The library is closing in ten minutes. We should probably leave. ” 

Hux is halfway across the room when Ben says, apropos of nothing, “I have a test on Friday,” and Hux does a half turn only to realize Ben has followed him all the way to the door, his gaze steady as if daring Hux to turn him away, knuckles tight on the strap of his backpack and bleeding white.

“Snoke won’t let me play if I don’t — if I don’t pass,” Ben says. There’s a note of desperation in his voice, buried under the air of defiance, and Hux takes one good look at him before finally deigning to respond. Ben Solo carries his backpack slung over just one shoulder, and it’s clear he isn’t lying about being fresh from practice at least. He’s wearing a school sweatshirt, the silkscreened logo having faded over time and bled into the blue-grey fabric, in a size that seems at odds with his broad chest and long limbs. His hands are big, and his ears too, flaring out from a curtain of dark hair.

This is already shaping to be a terrible idea, _Ben Solo is an idiot,_ but Hux’s future could be hinging on this very moment so he dials down on the vitriol. “Your mother is Vice Dean,” he says, as if he hadn’t known, as if no one in the school knows of Ben Solo’s illustrious family history and their powerful connections. Hux can hear his father thrilling at that: _connections_ because he’s never been a self-made man.

“Yeah,” Ben says, looking annoyed and then confused. “What about it?”

Hux ignores the question. “I have a free period tomorrow after lunch,” he tells Ben instead. “I’ll be in the library then. Bring your notes.”

“I don’t have notes.”

“Really,” Hux says stiffly. “You don’t have — _notes_?”

Ben looks at him sort of baldly and then Hux gives in only because he wants to get to dinner on time and end the conversation before he throws himself in the path of a speeding train. 

“Right then, no notes. Well, I’ll figure something out,” he says, and then leaves Ben Solo in the dust, hardly glancing over his shoulder after he shuts the door behind him. 

 

* * *

 

 

Lunch consists of some sort of rice dish and stew, with bean sprouts on the side and a cup of yogurt. The quality of their meals come and go but Hux doesn’t really mind. He’s used to eating mess hall food, though from time to time he misses the meals cooked at home which has always been more palatable than this bland shapeless nonsense the school passes off for nutrition, even when Hux’s mother decides to cook. Hux snags a table in a pinch of shade by the window and settles his tray next to Mitaka whose head is ducked into a paperback. Mitaka eats one handed, shoving food into his mouth and missing half the time so that splatters of his every bite decorate the napkin tucked into his collar. They aren’t friends, not in the strictest sense, but they’ve roomed together once in ninth grade and have borrowed study notes from each other.

They sit in silence until Hux finishes his meal and takes his tray back to be cleaned, pocketing his yogurt as he wends his way to the library. He hadn’t specified what time he and Ben Solo will be meeting _exactly_ but if he isn’t there before Hux’s next class, Hux vows to opt out of the whole arrangement altogether and ask Sloane to recommend someone else. He doesn’t need a letter of recommendation anyway; he’s worked so hard to get into honours classes that his grades should speak for themselves when he applies for uni. 

The library is predictably empty at this hour, quiet save for the steady hum of the old fashioned air conditioning unit rattling in the corner. Hux seats himself by the window, well within the eyeline of whomever walks through the door. He doesn’t have to wait long. He’s only halfway into his yogurt when Ben Solo appears, this time in uniform though Hux shouldn’t be expecting him in anything but. He’s missing his tie which Hux sees is balled in the front pocket of his school jacket. Also his dress shirt is partway unbuttoned, revealing the stretched out collar of a black undershirt. 

Hux doesn’t know why the school lets him get away with it; then again, he has an idea.

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” Hux says before he can stop himself. He’s almost irritated that Ben hadn’t ghosted him. Now he has to actually make an effort to help the guy pass his test. 

“Yeah, well,” Ben says, and leaves it at that. “Did you have lunch already?” He eyes the cup of yogurt in Hux’s hand and Hux moves it out of the way before he can snatch it out of his grip or something equally asinine like that. 

He’s not afraid of Ben Solo, but he’s heard _stories_. It’s always best to err on the side of caution. 

“Do you have your notes with you?” Hux says instead of answering Ben’s question. 

Ben looks at him, then scoffs. “I told you, I don’t have any notes.” But he rifles through the contents of his backpack when Hux holds his stare. 

From the detritus of his bag, Ben produces a homework packet and the results of his last pop quiz riddled with corrections made in red felt tip pen. 

Hux presses his lips together and wisely keeps his mouth shut when he examines Ben’s answer sheet, back to front, and then front to back. He’s had Jinn before for Pre-Calc and knows the final can get brutal. Ben will be slaughtered, but well, maybe Hux can earn brownie points by helping him get a C at least. It’s not impossible though he won’t call himself a miracle worker. 

“Your test’s on Friday?” Hux hums. 

Ben nods after a beat, hand flexing around a stress toy made from balled up rubber bands. It’s probably supposed to calm him down or something; he has the look of a hothead, a sullen depressive air.

Hux sighs and pulls out a clean sheet of paper, then a pen. “You might want to pay attention,” he says, beginning to draft a rough outline of the topics they’ll need to go over before Ben can have a working knowledge of functions. He pens a simple problem and slides the sheet across the table for Ben to answer.

Ben just stares at it for half a minute, still squeezing the stress ball. He looks up at Hux right when Hux is about to spoon yogurt into his mouth.

“Your handwriting,” Ben says. “It’s really… _neat_.”

Hux swallows around a mouthful of yogurt, his left eye twitching. He doesn’t know what to say to that; Ben’s thrown him for a loop. No one's complimented his handwriting before; then again there's only Mitaka who routinely asks to borrow his notes, then his teachers. “Thank you,” Hux mutters, and then a little more briskly: “Now answer the problem.”

Ben snorts before picking up a pen.

 

* * *

 

 

Hux doesn’t see Ben Solo again until Thursday, the day before his supposed test. Hux is on his way to his dormitory, jostling his way through the after-school crowd, when Ben springs suddenly into view, blocking his path to the eleventh grade dorms. It takes him aback completely, mostly because their next session isn’t until Saturday, after Ben’s test, and they hardly even know each other to be privy to the other’s schedule or whereabouts at a given day. 

Ben pushes himself off the wall he’s leaning his elbows against like some sort of poster boy of a school hooligan though the effect is marred when he trips on a loose tile on ground.

“Right,” Hux says uncertainly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Ben is really looking at him and not one of his chums from the lacrosse team standing behind Hux. “Did you need help with something?”

That seems like the wrong question to ask because then Ben says, “My test is tomorrow.”

“And?” Hux prompts. “So?”

“So you need to help me,” Ben says. Hux has never met anyone so presumptuous in his life. He has other things to do besides help Ben study for his stupid test. Truthfully, he’s finished with most of his homework and has time enough for more than just a nap before dinner but Ben doesn’t have to know that. Ben doesn’t have to know anything. He really shouldn’t even be here. His dorm is on the other side of the quad.

“I gave you that problem set yesterday. You did well enough,” Hux says evenly.

“Barely.” Ben grabs Hux’s arm, then drops it as soon as Hux starts to shrug him off. “Besides, I have a question.” He sounds sheepish.

“Can it wait until Saturday?”

“It’s about functions.”

Hux stares at him. “All right,” he says, begrudging, and waits for Ben to ask the question. Ben doesn’t; instead he grabs Hux’s arm again though his grip is loose this time, less likely to cut off circulation. “Come on,” he says, and juts out his chin, giving Hux what equates to a meaningful look.

Hux blinks at him, confused. “What? What does that mean? What are you doing?”

Ben frowns. He’s tall, has half an inch over Hux, maybe even more, if only he didn’t slump so much. He tugs at Hux’s arm again, maneuvering Hux in the direction he wants. “That means _let’s go_. Do you not recognize the universal sign for let’s go?”

Hux has had a long day and is too tired to argue about universal signs so he stares at Ben dully and lets himself be pulled. “The library is that way,” he says, jerking his head in the aforementioned direction.

“I’m aware,” Ben says simply. “We’re not going to the library.”

Instead he drags Hux to the old science building which is now covered in scaffolding and in the midst of repair. There are scorch marks spiking up the brick walls, holly scratching cruelly at the boarded up windows which show toothy gaps as if someone had a hand at plying them free with a crowbar. The plaque above the front doors is so verdegrised with age that Hux has to squint to make out the letters and even then he can barely read the motto in Latin. 

The fact that he is well and truly alone with the volatile Ben Solo doesn’t escape him. 

The front entrance is nailed shut so Ben walks to the back, disappearing a moment only to emerge again from the other side of the door, kicking it open with a creak and a triumphant noise that would almost be funny if Hux didn’t feel like hopping backwards until he expands the distance between them enough to safely bolt.

The leather of Ben’s shoes are scuffed. Hux doesn’t follow him inside.

“Are you scared?” Ben asks, and it’s the taunt that does it more than the unreadability of his gaze. Hux strides in after him, following him up a whinging stairwell, his hands leaving prints in the dust filming the banister. He pockets them instead, fighting off the sneeze crawling at the back of his throat. “Don’t be daft,” he says to Ben, startled by the sound of his own voice echoing down the long empty hall, “I’m just wondering howyou think this place is to learning about functions.”

Ben doesn’t smile, but it’s a near thing. He kicks another door open, because of course he does, and then disappears inside. “Shut up,” he says belatedly, his voice muffled. “It’s nice in here. _Peaceful_. No people. You can hear yourself think.”

Ben walks over to the water-spotted window to watch the comings and goings of students in the quad, leaning his shoulder against the splintered wood with his arms crossed over his chest. When Hux had been eleven, new to boarding school, he and his roommate had dared the other to sneak into the old science building, all for an extra meal card. It was said to be haunted then, full of the ghosts of dead students. Now Hux knows better. These days it’s a prime spot for making out and making shady drug deals for things worse than Ritalin. He’s half expecting someone to accost him with drugs on his way out, or maybe that’s all just hearsay. 

“Is this where you hide the bodies of your victims?” Hux asks, when the silence becomes unbearable and it’s all starting to feel awkward, when he should have prefaced with _is this where you beat me up?_ It won’t be the first time. He’d been bullied before though that had happened when he was a lot younger and stupid; it was simply the way of things in boarding school. Hux is older now of course, better at deflection when things come to a head. He tugs self-consciously at the strap of his book bag, keeping his body angled towards the door. 

“Do you come here often?” Hux tries again.

Ben blinks at him, glancing down at Hux as if he’d forgotten he was there at all, his gaze unfocussed. 

Hux rolls his eyes. “Never mind. Are the lights working?”

Ben shrugs one shoulder, pushing himself off the wall and flipping on the switch which happens to be conveniently located right behind Hux, just above his shoulder. He has to reach behind Hux, with Hux ducking out of the way to avoid his arm, annoyed at himself for his own nervousness; he’d followed Ben here of his own volition, _now_ he’s afraid Ben would knock him around a little?

There are bulbs missing from the ceiling, plaster peeling away like skin here and there and cobwebs fringing the windows, but they don’t need much in the way of lighting as it’s still early enough in the afternoon. Sunlight comes streaming in through the gaps of broken glass, highlighting specks of dust. It smells a little like wood rot in here and also a little musty like a closet that hasn’t been aired in a long time. 

Ben is staring moodily out the window again, and not for the first time Hux wants to throw his hands up at the ceiling. They’ve been here nearly half an hour. They’ve managed to accomplish absolutely nothing.

“Ben,” Hux says when Ben doesn’t respond the first time. “ _Ben_.” Hux taps him on the elbow and recoils immediately when Ben turns sharply toward him with a hardened expression. It makes him shrink in a corner, back away like he’s so used to doing when faced with a bully bigger than himself. He’s seen that look before on other people, but on Ben it’s even more terrifying.

“Would you stop calling me that?” Ben hisses with a calmer voice than Hux is expecting.

“That’s your name isn’t it?” Hux says, confused. “I’m sorry if you don’t think we know each other well enough to be on a first name basis yet.” He snorts, tilting his head to the side. “What would you rather have me call you then? _Supreme Leader?_ ”

It’s a joke but it’s one that’s lost on Ben who blinks at him like a concussed bird before shaking his head like Hux is the one acting absurd. 

“Kylo,” Ben mumbles. “Call me Kylo Ren.”

“What?” Hux has a feeling he’s missed something and Ben just gives him a look that confirms this without explaining the context.

“Never mind, just don’t call me Ben,” says Ben tiredly. “I hate that name.”

“Well _not-Ben_ ,” says Hux though at Ben’s withering look, he adds, “Or whatever your name is — what’s this about functions then that has you in a tizzy?”

Ben actually snorts. “You’re so strange,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“ _Tizzy?_ ” Ben signs quotations marks with his fingers. “Who even says that?”

“I’m not the one with the made-up name.”

“It’s not made up!” 

“Or doing quotation marks in the air.”

“Shut up.”

Hux ignores him. “Well first things first _Kylo Ren_ , are we here to actually do some studying or are we just going to waste time?”

  

 

* * *

 

 

 

Fridays are Hux’s favourite out of all the days in the week because Fridays mean the weekend is just around the corner, which in turn means more time to get things done as opposed to having to cram everything during random intervals of free period. It also means Hux can sleep in a little, though his father would have frowned at that sort of behaviour as he would have deemed it indolent. But Hux deserves it after all the time he spends studying anyway, and he’s up before 9 AM anyway so it doesn’t really count as sleeping in. When framed that way, there’s less… guilt so he’s allowed to indulge freely.

Hux’s last class of the day lets up early so he’s got an hour to himself before he needs to show up at the rec room where the film club will be holding a screening of an old black and white movie, some unpronounceable thing with subtitles probably, that Mitaka might enjoy and Hux will fall asleep in the middle of. 

Hux doesn’t have a roommate, not after his previous one had transferred out in the middle of term, so he gets to enjoy the rare privilege of having a room all to himself. Half of the room is empty, the bed denuded and the wall pale with the shadows of posters past. Hux’s side of the room is neat but not overly so: an identical single bed pushed under the window, textbooks on the shelves arranged by height, a small cabinet where he stores his pot noodles when the food in the mess hall makes him sick to his stomach. His retainers sit in clear plastic container on the dresser next to an old stack of printouts, reference material for the paper he’s writing on Russian literature.

He hangs his school blazer on a hook behind the door then starts toeing off his shoes and unbuttoning his shirt. It’s easy. Rote. Though often times the routine reminds him of his father’s: the undoing of the tie and the cufflinks, the hanging of his shirt in the closet to prevent further wrinkling, even the way he sits with his knees slightly apart, his belt unbuckled. Hux changes into casual clothes and tips facefirst into bed. He doesn’t mean to sleep very long but he wakes with his face smushed into a pillow, the sun already gone outside and a light fog rolling in to cotton the quad. He staggers to the rec room, rubbing his arms and realizing he should have worn a jacket. 

The movie is already partway over, the lights dimmed so that the room is bathed in a ghostly blue-black glow that’s coming mostly from the screen. There’s Mitaka curled up in a corner of the couch, hugging a bag of popcorn in his lap. The whole setup is rather disorganized: some people aren’t even watching, just chatting in clusters leaving a row of unoccupied fold-up chairs in front of the room. Hux just sort of stands there in the doorway, feeling stupid about having to squint at the subtitles from afar though he can’t be arsed to sit anywhere near the screen. The audio is faintly fuzzy because the film club can’t afford better speakers or maybe it’s to do with the actual movie, old and grainy in black and white, the sound un-mastered. 

Ten minutes in and Hux deems it as a lost cause and starts walking back to his dorm. There’s nothing better to do on a Friday night but the WiFi will still be on for another hour so maybe he can find something to do in the meantime. He wishes he were more surprised when he runs into Ben again as Hux is cutting through the quad to get to his building. 

Ben looks like he’s just finished practice, freshly showered and dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants. His hair is still a little wet and he’s slouching more so than usual, one hand inside the pocket of his hoodie. His lacrosse stick is poking out of a gym bag hanging off his shoulder. Ben keeps walking, still with his head down, and almost bumping into Hux unseeingly.

“ _Ben_ ,” Hux says, just because he can’t help himself. When Ben just looks at him as they fall into step with each other, saying nothing about his preferred name, Hux asks, “So how was your test?” 

Ben looks at him blankly, his mouth set in a thin line and then shrugs one shoulder. Hux doesn’t have to ask him to elaborate. He’s fairly easy to read. If they’d been friends, or if Hux believed a sincere friendship could exist inside the walls of the academy, he would have done something trite like bump shoulders with Ben, or catch him in a one-armed awkward side-hug. As it stands, they barely know each other, and Ben has a long history of clocking people who so much as look at him the wrong way. And Hux isn’t that kind of person anyway; he doesn’t do hugs.

“The film club is showing a movie in the rec room, if you’re interested,” Hux says, diverting the topic.

There’s a long pause and then finally Ben lifts his head. “What movie?”

“I don’t know,” says Hux, shrugging now himself though he hates the gesture, the uncertainty of it. Or maybe it’s his father that hates it; sometimes he can hardly tell anymore. “Something German, probably,” Hux sniffs. “They love that kind of thing, subtitles.”

Ben looks at him oddly for a second, peering at him through the hair in his face. “Are you in the film club?”

“Me?” Hux laughs, and it comes out sounding meaner than it’s supposed to. “No,” he says when he sees the annoyed expression in Ben’s face. “I’m not, no. I’m not part of any clubs.” He used to be in the chess club though, and the math club, but he’d left after he didn’t make president. Sometimes he regrets leaving on days when he’s got so much free time but no clear idea what to do with it besides catch up on sleep. 

“You shouldn’t worry about that test,” Hux says after a moment, even though Ben probably has cause to, “We’ll wait on your results and go from there. Don’t we have a session tomorrow?”

“Stupid.” Ben hisses. 

Hux startles. “I’m sorry?”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.”Ben starts thumping a fist over his forehead, on and on until a mark starts to take form. Frankly, it’s a little disturbing to watch: spittle flies out of Ben’s mouth as he repeats the gesture, the word, over and over until his chest starts to heave and his nostrils flare. Then he whirls around to face Hux, jabbing a finger in his direction, making Hux stumble back.

“I thought you could help me!” 

“ _What?_ ” Hux says. Now Ben is just accusing him of being useless. Hux almost never gets angry, not in the real sense, but Ben is testing him. He feels a well inside him burst into flame. 

“That’s what I’m trying to do, aren’t I?” Hux snaps, “I’m sorry if you don’t think I’m very effective. We’ve only had three sessions together, one of which you were even late to, might I remind you. And it’s just one test. There’ll be others. It’s still early in the term.”

Ben just looks at him, before grabbing his lacrosse stick from his bag and beating it against the ground until there’s an audible crack and he makes a sizable dent in the soft grass. He screams himself hoarse, his eyes bugging out and veins spidering his neck. He screams until he’s red in the face, until he’s just beating his fists against the ground and punching dirt. Hux takes a step back, then another, knowing better than to get caught within the radius of Ben’s rage. 

He finds himself sprinting; it’s ridiculous but he finds himself sprinting, cutting a swift path across the quad straight to his dorm. Even after he’s safely in his room again with the door locked and the blinds closed, his pulse won’t stop pounding in his ears. Hux has broken out in cold sweat. 

When he washes his face and sees his wide-eyed reflection in the mirror above the sink, he blinks and almost wants to laugh.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For P.E., Hux runs track. The weather is starting to turn on itself but it’s still warm enough that when Krennic makes them run laps at nine in the morning, Hux still stinks up a sweat. He almost passes out afterwards, dizzy from the heat and lack of breakfast. The sun-baked grass provides a perfect bed after a forty minute lap, and Hux closes his eyes against the warmth washing over him as he sprawls like a starfish on the ground waiting for his pulse to settle. He’s not athletic, but he enjoys a good run now and again because it’s easy, running, and he doesn’t have to think at all when he’s doing it. 

Mitaka, who’s in the same P.E. class, is doing some last-minute stretches before hitting the showers, laughing at something someone has said. Hux is about to get started on his stretches too when a shadow looms over him, blocking out the sun and making him pause. Hux squints up at them, his stomach pinching up when he finds that it’s… Ben. Or not-Ben as he’s wished to be called; it’s all really ridiculous. Still, Hux can’t help but bristle a little. He hates staring up at Ben from the ground but he doesn’t take his proffered hand when Hux maneuvers himself inelegantly back on his feet. 

“You didn’t show up,” Ben accuses. He’s in uniform though it looks less like a violation of school policy now that he’s got his tie on and his blazer which is a little tight on the shoulders. 

“I was busy,” Hux lies. Busy evading Ben, that’s what. He isn’t stupid. He doesn’t want to be alone with him again, not when he’s prone to fits of anger.

Ben shoots him a disbelieving look as if he sees through the flimsy lie. Then his gaze starts to roam, traveling from Hux’s chest down to his feet, then back up again. He doesn’t say anything but all of a sudden Hux feels self-conscious about his knees. P.E. happens to be his least favourite class, on account of having to wear a mesh shirt and shorts that bunch up his thighs — never a good look on anyone, least of all someone like him who leans toward the side of lanky. Hux prefers the layers of his school uniform that cover him from neck to ankle. Comparing his physique to Ben is almost laughable but he can’t help but wonder now what Ben sees when he looks at him in his faded P.E. shirt, with his pasty white thighs and his droopy muddy-covered socks. The disparity must be unnerving. 

“Don’t you have class right now?” Hux asks, nose twitching.

Ben gives him another one of those non-answers, a careless one-shoulder shrug that make Hux suspect he’d cut class. He follows Hux all the way to the locker room where he’s given a wide berth because everyone knows who he is, infamous hothead, the star of the lacrosse team, maybe both. 

“Snoke says you’re doing this for extra credit,” Ben continues, as if Hux hasn’t been ignoring him the entire time. Hux stares at the back of his locker door before unceremoniously dumping his shoes inside and grabbing a towel that smells clean enough when he lifts it to his nose.

“Well, I’m not exactly getting paid for this, nor am I doing it out of the goodness of my heart,” Hux says. 

“He also says your teacher promised you a letter of recommendation,” Ben says slowly. “From my mom. When you apply for—”

“What do you want, _Ren_?” Hux cuts in, banging his locker door shut. The effect is lost anyhow because of the noise, the murmur of conversation and the slam of locker doors, the slap of shoes and squeak of bare feet on the tile. Ben is leaning against the locker next to Hux, seemingly casual.

“I need to pass Pre-Calc,” Ben mutters, kicking a spot on the ground with the toe of his shoe, “if I want to play lacrosse this season. Those are Snoke’s terms. He says the school won’t let me play otherwise. That my grades are… not up to standard.”

Hux sighs, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He’s not surprised, though he wishes Ben had said all this in the beginning. Hux’s shirt is starting to make him itch now that he’s worn it long after his sweat has dried; he wants to shower before his next class but doesn’t feel comfortable taking his shirt off in Ben’s presence, afraid he’ll get laughed at for his skinny chest, and just generally…embarrassed by his own nakedness. He doesn’t want Ben looking at him, when he’s pale as the inside of fish and soft in all the places Ben isn’t.

“I’m not a miracle worker, you know,” Hux tells him, “You’ll need to do your own heavy-lifting.” Before Ben can respond to that, Hux digs through his bag on the bench and pulls out his binder, peeling off an empty post-it note. He writes down some of his free periods though a part of him knows he’ll be regretting it sooner rather than later even as he hands Ben the note. 

“I’ll be in the library during these hours,” Hux says. 

Ben takes the note from him and stares at it with a raised eyebrow, the note cupped in his oversized palm. 

Hux nods at him to conclude their conversation and doesn’t wait for a response: he shuffles into an empty shower stall in the furthest corner of the room before tugging the rest of his clothes out of the way. The entire time he’s there, his neck prickles with the sensation of being watched, but when he chances a glance over his shoulder there’s no one. Hux shrugs it off, but has to fight a shiver pimpling his back in gooseflesh.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Though Hux makes good on his promise to help Ben with his lessons, he realizes too late that the cost of it is loss of his free time. The sessions bleed over to other free periods, because Ben has questions that birth even more and Hux is nothing if not singularly obsessed in making sure Ben emerges with some degree of knowledge to buoy him through the rest of the term. He also, oddly, wants to see him _actually_ play lacrosse even though he’s attended none of the games and is less interested in whether or not their school makes championship.

This new facet of Hux’s life is strange. Before, Hux would spend his free time either in club or getting a head start on his schoolwork. He should acknowledge it just so he’s mentally prepared in case things go pearshaped but giving voice to it might somehow break him from this new routine. Hux loves routine, the predictability of it, knowing the steps he’s about to take are tried and true. But Ben is the exact opposite of that. Right when Hux thinks he’s got him entirely figured out, Ren does something that completely sweeps the rug from under Hux’s feet, like single him out in the lunchtime crowd just to ask him if he’d want Ren’s cup of yogurt. Then there’s Ben’s penchant for meeting up in the least conducive of places: like the rowing team’s club room after classes, or the wooded area behind the chapel just to avoid what he called “prying eyes”.

Truthfully, Hux finds him unnerving though it’s because he can’t pin Ren down. It would be easy to write him off as a typical boarding school brat, but Hux doesn’t know him long enough to make that kind of assumption about him. He’s seen Ren sporadically over the past few weeks, glimpses of him on his way to class and coming from them, but Hux never breaks character to call him out. 

He finds Ben one afternoon under the bleachers, just as he said he would be for their session, no less a cliche with a book propped open over his sleeping face like he’s tanning in a sweltering hot summer. Hux crawls on all fours and scoots up next to him, watching some kids in another year play frisbee on the field. It’s Friday and students have been freed to wreak havoc on each other. 

He lets Ben have his nap, watches him breathe minutely, his chest rising and falling. His hands are big, just like the rest of him, splayed out across his chest, the knuckles split like he’d punched something. Or someone. He always gets into fights. Hux knows this because he’s heard the stories though now that he’s been inundated with more of Ben in his life, he realizes the whole truth of it: that Ben often gets into scuffles, that he’s a hothead just like they say, but he gets angry at himself most of the time, and takes the brunt of his own rage. 

When Ben starts to rustle, Hux pivots his gaze back to the field. He came here straight from class, had forgotten to grab a snack on the way and now longingly thinks of the pot noodles hidden in his cabinet. These Friday sessions often take a toll on him and last well into late afternoon. Something about the hour maybe, the knowledge that there is no schoolwork waiting to be finished, that all of the work can be accomplished on the weekend, makes him lazy and less… well, himself.

“I’m still not sure why you’re so averse to meeting in the library,” Hux says, just to break the silence. Ben is staring at him, maybe at his face, though Hux doesn’t know because he won’t look at Ben, and pretends instead to be interested in the sight of clouds overhead. When he does to turn to look at him, Ben only holds his gaze for a second before he drops his head with a thump on the grass and puts the book down. He’s reading _Leaves of Grass,_ probably for a class. Hux doesn’t take him for a reader. He doesn’t know what Ben does in his free time. He vows not to think about that at all, either; he shouldn’t care and doesn’t.

“I told you already,” Ben says impatiently. “People. Noise. Distraction.” He waves the question off. 

“Right,” Hux snorts. “But also: better lighting, ergonomic seating.” He starts to unpack his own notes from the miasma of paper matter inside his bag. Ben smirks when he sees Hux’s binder, a dark blue thing which is nondescript enough but has A.HUX printed on the righthand corner of the cover.

“Maybe I should call you A.Hux,” Ben says.

Hux looks at him. “Please don’t.”

“Armitage.”

“Not if you value your life, no.”

“Hux?” Ben tries again.

Hux bites the inside of his lip, and Ben takes this as confirmation. It hits him that Ben has never actually referred to him by name, not after their first meeting. He just sort of shows up out of nowhere and starts speaking to Hux as if picking up on a conversation they’ve left off, with the casual air of someone who’s known Hux all his life and like Hux has owed him a sum of money, which is annoying. 

“You are so strange,” Ben says, then shakes his head. He props himself up on his elbows. “You want me to call you by your last name?”

Hux doesn’t tell him why; Ben won’t get it anyway, nor does he deserve an explanation. Only people of authority call Hux by his first name, his teachers, and his father when he’s done something bad or worthy of reprimand. It makes his spine straighten; he doesn’t want to give other people that power. His mother almost never calls him by name, and uses _sweetheart_ or _darling_ or any cloying nickname she would cook up at any given time.

“At least it isn’t a made-up name,” Hux says, as a last ditch attempt to salvage his pride. “Kylo _Ren_.”

“It’s a cool name,” Ben mutters hotly, glaring at him, his fist clenched. 

“Sure,” Hux says. “ _Ren_.” Then he snorts, and starts to laugh which sets Ben off until they’re laughing with no idea what’s so funny. Still: it feels good, with the wind cool on his face and making a mess of Ben’s hair. The whole thing is ridiculous and makes him feel like a character from a movie, sitting under the bleachers while the sun sinks in the horizon and the wind ruffles treeleaves overhead, the grass dewy and dampening the seat of Hux’s trousers, the only actual reminder that this is real and it’s happening. Nothing is funny, and yet he looks at Ben laughing and relief slides over him that Ben has revealed himself to be a real person after all, not just a one dimensional brat whose reputation precedes him. He’s a person, just like Hux. He can laugh. Hux doesn’t know why he finds that so surprising.

“It is a cool name,” Hux agrees faintly, when they’ve sobered up. “Has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? _Kylo Ren._ Hm.”

Ben, tugging at blades of grass under his hand, flicks dirt in Hux’s direction. “Well, don’t wear it out!”

“I’ll try not to,” Hux says drily, and then it’s business as usual. He’s gotten quite good at steering the conversation back on track. They do tend to get lost on tangents more often than not when things are left in Ben’s hands. “Did you bring your notes this time?”

Ben gives him that look that could mean anything. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ben, or not-Ben _Ren_ is annoying. 

And he’s everywhere. It’s like Hux has started to notice his presence for the first time in years, during morning assembly on Mondays when Hux is bleary-eyed and soulless from the lack of caffeine, or in the mess hall when Ren is sat alone in the corner hunched protectively over his lunch tray like he’s in prison and someone is about to steal his food.

He sees Ren around, through no fault of his own, because even when they don’t have study sessions planned, it’s not actually a very big school: the dormitories are right across the quad, four story brick buildings for grades sixth to ninth, while grades tenth to twelfth sit nearby the chapel so that every morning Hux is greeted by the ominous toll of the morning bell. 

Sometimes, Hux sees Ren in the Chemistry wing of the new science building or when he’s coming out of detention with his head hanging low and his lips pulled into a tight line. 

He sees him sometimes during P.E. when Hux’s class coincides with Snoke making the lacrosse team run laps before practice. The sight of it should be unattractive, a bunch of sweaty teenagers on the cusp of puberty huffing and sweating, their shorts bunching up their ass, but Hux catches sight of Ren bringing up the rear one morning, shouting at the stragglers, and Hux has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. 

Ren doesn’t look as bad as the rest of his team, standing out because he’s the tallest and has dark hair while the rest of them are blonde and blue-eyed duplicates. Ren catches his eye when the team does its last circuit, but Hux doesn’t acknowledge him and neither does Ren, though it doesn’t matter anyway; they aren’t friends. Hux doesn’t really have any. 

 

* * *

 

 

Ren is the kind of person Hux finds easy to hate: he’s elusive and indifferent about everything, and this makes him totally unreliable. Usually Hux is able to pinpoint what makes a person annoying, but with Ren it’s just… his general air.  

“How was that paper you were working on the other day?” Ren asks, as if dropping in in the middle of a conversation, casual as anything. He’s wearing a hoodie over his uniform shirt and some jeans which again Hux is sure isn’t allowed but he’s somehow getting away with.  

Hux doesn’t respond, unshouldering his bag and taking his usual seat across from Ren. Ever other table is occupied except for the one in the corner, a prime spot with a view of the quad and columns of pale light fringed by a shelf housing history books. It’s also just out of the librarian’s eye-line which means Hux can nap or eat without getting caught. 

It seems Ren has caught on because he’s brought a sandwich with him in a Ziploc bag. “I finished the problem set you gave the other day,” Ren says, hunching over the table. He’s broader than Hux and Hux suspects taller than he appears to be, because he’s always stooping or slouching. 

Ren clicks his pen and raises his eyebrows at Hux; his whiskers catch the light. He’s a year younger than Hux but already he has a smattering of hair everywhere; Hux has seen him with his shirt off during lacrosse practice — much to his dismay— and knows full well that there’s a thin trail of dark hair from his belly button to his — Hux snaps back to attention.  

“Come here and let me look at it,” Hux says. Ren walks around the table to lean casually over Hux’ shoulder, standing far enough that Hux can’t tell him to back off but close enough that Hux can feel the warmth of his body. The strings of his school-issued sweatshirt brush Hux’ shoulder when Ren braces himself on the table with his hand. 

When Hux looks up at him from the corner of his eye, there’s an unusual smile lifting the corner of Ren’s mouth. Hux makes a thoughtful noise as he runs a finger down the page, clicking his tongue at most of Ren’ equations, correcting a few with a felt tip pen which gives him some degree of . 

When he’s done, Ren seats himself on the actual table by Hux’s elbow, crossing his arms but still not taking his eyes off the’ problem set. “Your equations are a mess plus you have terrible handwriting which is never a good combination. And you’re using the wrong formula. Here, look.” Hux taps the page. 

“Huh,” Ren says. “ _Fuck_.”   

Hux ignores the expletive and hands Ren back the problem set, making him redo the few he’d gotten wrong on a separate sheet of paper. Hux starts working on his other homework like his English essay due next week, which he hopes Ren doesn’t comment on because he always seems like he’s got a lot to say about things he has no business with. 

Hux glances up when he hears a rustle of plastic only to see Ren cutting up a sandwich in half — _sloppy,_ getting mayo pretty much everywhere. _Jesus_. He’s like a child.

“Sandwich?” Ren offers, lifting the other half in Hux’ direction. “It’s got turkey in it.” He licks his thumb. 

Hux accepts it for what it is – a peace offering – and gingerly peels off the crusts. His half has dwindled significantly in size so he eats his sandwich sparingly, taking tiny bites until there’s nothing left but bits of crust too stubborn to get rid off. He gets crumbs all over his keyboard so he moves his laptop out of range, mopping up the remains with a wad of tissue. 

“ _Huh_ ,” says Ren again, watching him now in something like rapt attention. Hux wipes instinctively at his cheek, a knee-jerk reaction whenever anyone looks at him the way Ren is now — a product of having been bullied as a child in his early years in boarding school; he hates feeling like there’s something he doesn’t know, something he’s missing that should’ve been obvious. 

“What is it? Why are you staring at me like that?”  

Ren shakes his head, saying nothing. Still, there’s a look to him that Hux doesn’t know what to make of. Ren takes a huge bite out of his sandwich and finishes it in three gulps.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The thing about the lacrosse though, is that it’s the academy’s most favourite sport, next to rowing, and avoiding the lacrosse team is almost impossible. They’re always hogging the field, practicing. During a free period, Hux sits in on one of the practice games out of sheer morbid curiosity. The bleachers are not empty of onlookers, tiny flocks of people just sitting and talking, kids doing homework in a corner, and then people like Hux who have nothing better to do than pretend they’re soaking up the last remaining days of sunshine before fall rears its ugly head.

Hux has a basic grasp of lacrosse though he doesn’t see the appeal of it. The practice match seems kind of dull at first, with Ren’s team scoring only because the goalie keeps dodging the ball like he’s afraid of getting hit. Finally, Snoke calls for a time out, and the rest of the team stagger towards the benches for gulps of water from the a red plastic jug situated near the benches. Some of them, young faces Hux doesn’t recognize, pass out on their ass on the ground. 

Ren jogs towards Hux as soon as he sees him, ripping his headgear off and propping it against one hip. His hair is in it usual mess, sticky with sweat and plastered everywhere across his face, hiding the brunt of his scar. “What are you doing here?” He says, mouthguard like a lemon rind wrapped comically around his teeth. He spits it out in a gloved palm before repeating the question, then asks, “Have you been watching?”

“No,” Hux says all too quickly. If he sounds defensive, he isn’t; he just doesn’t want Ren to get the wrong idea. “I just wanted to see what the fuss is all about. I’ve never seen an actual lacrosse match before.”

Ren nods, then hums. “You’re missing out. Lacrosse is the best.”

“Of course you’d say that,” Hux says, not even bothering to hide his amusement.“You smell awful by the way,” he points out just to annoy Ren. He’s not really rank, more musty and sun-drenched, but Hux has always possessed the uncanny knack to immediately turn any agreeable conversation around as if it’s a nervous tic. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve been under the sun for almost an hour,” Ren shrugs. That explains his tan. Hux can’t tan; he burns easily. It’s genetics. That’s why there are people like Ren who look like they’ve been carved out of pure granite and then people Hux who would topple easily at the slightest gust of wind. It’s wholly unfair but Hux has learned to live with it.

“Am I going to see you later?”

There’s something about his phrasing that makes Hux look over his shoulder to check for any eavesdroppers. Thankfully, there aren’t any; no one is paying them any attention except Snoke whose hands are on his hips like he’s waiting for Ren to join the rest of the team back on the field. 

“We don’t have another session until next week before your test,” Hux reminds him. “Also, I think you’re being summoned.”

When Ren raises an eyebrow at him in question, Hux points behind him. _Snoke_. Ren nods, his face suddenly grim. 

“I’ll see you then,” Ren says, sucking on his mouthguard and then strapping back his headgear before jogging back to the field. He does a little half-turn and waves up at Hux with his lacrosse stick. Hux pointedly doesn’t wave back. 

The game picks up where it’s left off, and Ren’s team scores a goal followed by another. Ren is light on his feet and ruthless, feinting and dodging blows from oncoming midfielders and generally keeping the ball all to himself like he has no concept of teamwork. He’s only a stupid teenager; there shouldn’t be anything impressive about him at all and _yet_ Hux has to often remind himself of the fact even as he watches Ren thump a triumphant fist over his chest when he scores another goal. 

When their eyes catch again, Hux has to duck away briefly, shielding his gaze from the shock of sun that’s starting to beat down overhead.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hux snorts awake from a bad dream he doesn’t remember, tasting metal in his mouth. He runs his tongue over his front teeth and realizes belatedly that he’d left his retainers on again for the third time this week. He’d fallen asleep next to his homework packet, cheek lined with creases from the page it’s squashed against. Groggily, he pulls himself into an upright position, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palms. It’s not too late yet, judging from the softness of the light outside, a veil of dusk bleeding slowly into nightfall. 

When his vision clears enough to make out the details of his own room, a shadowy silhouette comes into focus and Hux nearly leaps out of bed when that silhouette materializes itself into the vague shape of a person, though the realization of whose it is doesn’t hit Hux until a moment later.

“What the fuck— _Ren_?” Hux squints and nearly has a heart attack. Sure enough it’s Ren, leaning back on his palms on the naked mattress, watching him in mirrored disbelief as if Hux is the one who had just showed up in Ren’s room without any preamble. “Jesus — you scared me. What are you doing here? How did you know where I was — never mind. Just give me a second.” Hux turns the lamp on, blinking rapidly as his eyes take a moment to adjust to the sudden flood of light. 

When he turns to face Ren again, he notices the discoloration on Ren’s left eyelid and fights to keep his expression completely neutral. He rubs at his elbows, walks to the open window and shuts it to get rid of the sudden draft, pointedly not thinking about Ren climbing through a third story window or how he must have gotten that fresh-looking bruise. It’s all for naught; Hux can’t seem to stop staring at it. 

“Your face,” Hux says, eventually. “You look awful.”

“Thanks,” Ren says, rolling his eyes. He lifts his right hand as if to paw at his eye then seems to remember himself and pockets his hand.

“What happened?” Hux asks before he can stop himself. 

“Lacrosse,” Ren says vaguely. “It’s an extreme sport.” 

Hux looks at him, then decides not to press it. “Right,” he says. 

“You have a lisp,” Ren tells him. 

“I have a _what_??” Hux says. Then he hears himself speak and almost touches his mouth. Hux develops a lisp when he has his retainers on and he doesn’t notice it mostly because he only wears them before bed. He shouldn’t be embarrassed, but no one’s been rude out to point it out so candidly before. 

Hux takes them off, feeling both self-conscious and annoyed, turning away from Ren when he returns them to their clear plastic container on the desk. 

“What are you doing here?” Hux asks, crossing his arms as he faces Ren again. 

“Oh, I’m just checking up on you,” Ren says all too casually. 

“You saw me earlier.”

Ren shrugs. Hux watches with a kind of detached horror when Ren starts touching his things. Usually, Hux hates it when people upset his personal space but he stays put even after Ren drums his fingers across his desk, tapping a key on Hux’s laptop so that it flickers open to the log screen showing a grey muggy landscape. He trails a hand over the spines of Hux’s textbooks on the shelf above the desk, the bottle of vitamins he’d left next to a mug of cooling tea, the navy blue robe slumped on the back of his chair, which is badly in need of a wash, musty already from use — picking things up and putting them back down again which Hux should have expected of Ren. 

Ren who looks at him, scratching at a soft dent in Hux’s desk with a thumbnail, and manages to seem both mysterious and terrible all at once, with his black eye and scuffed jeans. 

“You have a room all to yourself?” Ren says, “ _Lucky_. My roommate sucks. He masturbates a lot.”

“Jesus, Ren.” Hux isn’t sure if he wants to laugh.

“He thinks I can’t hear him from across the room,” Ren continues. “It’s disgusting.”

“ _Okay,_ ” Hux says slowly. “Are you drunk right now?” He doesn’t seem to be showing signs of inebriation. Hux doesn’t want to look at him closely, anyway; the bruise mottling his eye makes him inwardly wince. Makes him sympathetic too for no reason other than —

“I don’t drink,” Ren says, sounding petulant. “Snoke doesn’t allow us to drink.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Hux says. “You’re also only fifteen so you probably shouldn’t be drinking anyway.”

“Sixteen,” Ren corrects him, without missing a beat.

Hux blinks at him, once, and then another time. “I thought you were younger than me,” he says. The fact shouldn’t rankle him and _yet_. 

Ren hums, tapping another key on Hux’s keyboard. His eye looks really bad. “Well, I was held back a year. Got into an accident, was hospitalized for six months. I’m surprised you don’t know.”

“I don’t.”

Ren gives him a curious half-smile before touching the whitened edge of his scar above his eyebrow, making a slashing motion with his finger. Hux shouldn’t care about how he’d gotten that scar in the first place; he shouldn’t care about Ren’s black eye, either — _fuck him._ But the fact of the matter is, he’s infuriated about how blasé Ren is being about all of it. Hux shouldn’t be affected; he’s only here to tutor him. He wonders what else he knows about Ren that isn’t true, wonders what part of it is myth, if Ren is lying to him even now with that look on his face that’s suddenly hard to read. 

“People said you got into a fight,” Hux says.

Again that shrug. “Yeah, well, people say a lot of things about me, none of which are true.”

“I wouldn’t know that,” says Hux, in a perfectly controlled voice. 

“You wouldn’t,” Ren agrees, and this time his smile seems more sincere. “But that’s because you don’t really give a shit about anything, Hux.”

It’s true, of course, but hearing Ren say it somehow makes it even worse.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hux gets to see the inside of Ren’s room the week of midterms when Ren insists to steer clear of their usual haunts on the basis that he feels like they need a “change of scenery”, which is actually the stupidest thing Hux has ever heard. With the exception of the library, none of the places they meet in are actually conducive to studying. Sometimes Ren ends up falling asleep halfway into a tutoring session, which is probably his intent when he’d elected to meet in his dorm.

Nonetheless, the school is awash with a quiet frenzy that leaves Hux similarly affected. That probably has more to do with the fact that he’s been sucking coffee down like a madman, falling into bed at strange hours after pulling all nighters. He’s yawning, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt when Ren’s roommate opens the door for him on the third knock. He’s squat, face friendly enough, but he takes one look at Hux and shuffles out of the way. 

“I think it’s for you,” the roommate says, glancing over his shoulder. Hux spies Ren lying on his back in an unmade bed, arms folded behind his head. Ren rolls out of bed almost immediately at the sight of Hux in the doorway. His roommate seems to be on the way out, thankfully, hefting a couple of textbooks under his arm. 

“See ya,” he tells Hux, giving him a meaningful look as he shoulders past him. Hux decides not to think about what that look means as he weaves his way to the cluttered desk in a corner, presumably Ren’s on account of well, how messy it actually is. His side of the room isn’t covered in wayward clothes or the usual schoolboy detritus or anything like that, like Hux’s last roommate’s had been much to his dismay, but his books are on a haphazard pile by the headboard and a couple of lacrosse sticks are propped against wall, his desk half-covered in bits of crumpled paper matter, littering every available surface that isn’t already occupied by the expensive-looking laptop humming in sleep mode, courtesy probably of his generous parents. 

Actually, Hux is surprised Ren doesn’t have a single: usually students in his echelon tend to get their own room. Above the desk is a shelf of what Hux assumes are sports accolades and a black and white picture of the school’s old lacrosse team dated 1943. Hux has heard that Ren’s grandfather had been the star of his team back in his day, before he went professional and started playing for the state and then developed some sort of drinking problem. Supposedly, he drove his car into a ditch and the accident killed both him and his wife who by then was already thinking of divorcing him. But what does Hux know; all of it is conjecture, rumours cobbled together and whittled down into something more comprehensible, with none of the sentiment attached. Ren is probably used to it; there’s a lot of drama surrounding him and his family. 

There’s no where to sit — Ren’s backpack is dumbed unceremoniously on his desk chair — so Hux just stands around sort of awkwardly until Ren clears a spot for him on the bed. 

“Interesting room,” Hux says, for a lack of a better thing to say, glancing at the lone sullen poster of a team he doesn’t recognize above on the bed. 

“Thanks,” Ren says. “Anyway, that’s the guy I was telling you about. The one that masturbates a lot.”

“I kind of gathered,” says Hux drily. He’s surprised when Ren starts to sit on the floor. Hux remains seated on the bed, and is even more surprised when Ren raises his eyebrows at him as if he’s expecting Hux to start, leaning back on his palms, waiting. In the end, they stick with the arrangement though only for the first hour after Ren gets a backache and moves eventually back to his desk to work on the problem set Hux has prepared. 

Hux can’t concentrate, yawning through his homework periodically, typing and retyping the comma on his History paper. One minute he’s staring into space and the next he’s blinking in and out of consciousness, slumped on his side and breathing in lungfuls of Ren’s pillow. It smells newly changed, like laundry, but laced with Ren’s clean sweat, mineral. Hux is woken up from his doze when the mattress dips next to him. 

The light outside has been softened by dew on the windows, making Hux wonder what time it is and whether he’s late for dinner. Somehow he can’t bring himself to care about either of these things when he looks at Ren lying on his side with his back facing Hux. He seems only half-awake, which bolsters Hux’s courage to reach across the bed and touch his hair absently. He doesn’t know why he does it and is jarred by how soft it is to the touch, the ends feathering into curls. 

Hux drops his hand and scoots up into the furthest corner of the bed, drawing his arm up over his face. He listens to Ren breathe next to him, his light snoring, the echoing rattle of the radiator as it pushes steam through the pipes. He falls asleep without meaning to and ends up missing the bell for dinner.

 

 

* * *

Hux likes to run. Not too often, but when he feels like he needs the extra stimuli, he grabs a pair of trainers and runs a couple of circuits around the track. Usually he does this hours before classes start, when everyone else is still asleep and the track is empty, the school grounds blanketed in the soft mist of early morning. The weather is cold enough that each burst of air from his mouth produces a white cloud. He combats the chill by wearing his thickest sweatshirt, two pairs of socks.Then he runs. 

Running has always kept his thoughts at bay. There’s nothing to it; all he needs to do is keep moving. 

He runs until his legs ache, then heads straight to the showers, blissfully alone and where he stands under the hot spray to thaw out. Breakfast won’t be for another hour so he still has time for a nap. He’s fumbling with his bat kit under one arm and pocketing the key to his door when he notices that the window to his room has been left open, that he’s got a visitor and he’s sitting right on Hux’s bed with his legs crossed, thumbing through Hux’s paperback copy of _Pride and Prejudice._

“You again,” Hux says. “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t think you read this kind of stuff,” Ren says by way of greeting. He must see the murderous look on Hux’s face because then he tosses the book aside, and says, amiable, “Relax. I didn’t come here to criticize your taste in fiction. My mom makes me read all sorts of drivel.”

Hux doesn’t correct the assumption that he doesn’t consider Jane Austen drivel at all. Ren is wearing black, which shouldn’t be surprising, but he’s dressed like he’s about to break into someone’s house, black pants, black jacket, black beanie, and black combat boots. He’s the biggest cliche Hux has ever met. Half the time Hux is seized with the urge to hit him with something blunt and heavy. The other half Ren just leaves him feeling overwhelmed by another feeling Hux can’t seem to pinpoint. Either way, Ren's managed to get under his skin. 

“I wish you just would use the door like a normal person,” Hux says, hoping he sounds tired so that Ren takes the hint and leaves him alone. 

“That’s no fun.”

Hux sets down his bath kit on the desk and wisely doesn’t question Ren’s concept of what constitutes a fun activity. “You’re going to get in trouble if you keep climbing into my window like that, you know.”

“Only if I get caught,” Ren reminds him. “Don’t worry, I never get caught.”

“I’m not worried,” Hux says, snorting, because of course Ren would think that; he thinks the world revolves around him, because teachers keep giving him all sorts of favours on account of who his grandfather had been and the fact his mother is vice dean. “It’s just that if you ever get into more trouble than you can get out of and end up getting benched for the season then everything else we’ve been doing will have been for naught.” 

The smile that Ren gives him is answer enough to what he thinks of all this. “You know, you’re the only one in this school I’ve heard say stuff like that anymore, Hux. ‘ _Naught_ ’.”

“I won’t apologize for my vocabulary.”

“Of course not,” Ren says. “You won’t apologize for anything and that’s what I like about you.”

The casual way he says it makes something in Hux falter a bit. 

“Also, hey, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

Hux takes a moment to pull himself together after the abrupt change in topic. “My family really doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” he says eventually. This is mostly true; his mother will have dinner prepared in honour of Hux being home again for the weekend but she’s usually asleep before nine pm, heavily tranquilized by medication. His dad is always away on business, and will most likely be again, an excuse Hux has been meaning to decode ever since he’d overheard his father talking to a woman on speaker phone last summer, promising her he’d be right over. 

“Mine does. It’s kind of our thing. You’re welcome to come with if you want.” Ren unspools himself from the bed, stands with his hands inside both pockets of his jacket. The bruising on his eye is almost completely gone now. From where he’s standing, Hux can see the details of Ren’s scar but it’s the fact that it doesn’t bother Hux nearly as much as it used to that takes him aback. Besides, it seems to lend a toughness to Ren’s face anyway, which holds a certain softness when seen up close. Then there’s his mouth, which is also soft, and which Hux wishes isn’t the sole cause of his distress and a wellspring of bullshit both at the same time. 

“All right, sure,” Hux says. “I’ll let you know if my father says yes.”

“Right,” Ren says, but already that hopeful lilt in his voice is gone like he knows Hux doesn’t mean it and is just being polite about turning him down. “Just think about it.”

He leaves and Hux remembers to shut the window and latch it. Then he stands in his room for another minute, just standing there doing nothing, looking at the mess of everything and wondering if Ren has touched anything. The room is in the exact state as he’d left it, his uniform laid out on the unoccupied bed next to a pair of balled up socks, his thermos and retainers in their container on the nightstand, but he tidies up the room just the same, righting his books, hanging his robe in the closet, smoothing out the covers. He plucks Pride and Prejudice where Ren has left it lying face-down on the bed. 

Hux skims through the page where Ren left it open, the chapter where Darcy professes his love to Lizzie and is then turned down, before setting it back on its place on the shelf above the desk. 

 

  

  

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thanksgiving is as Hux expected: predictable. 

He brings a bag full of laundry home and spends the weekend mostly staring into space, listening to NPR in his room and saving movies to his laptop to take with him to school where browsing is limited to ‘academic’ sites mostly in an effort to keep students away from porn. 

His mother asks him at dinner how school is, as if she hasn’t already asked him that in the last twenty-four hours since he’s been home. Still, he regales her with stories, embellished to insinuate he has actual friends and is having the time of his life, as opposed to letting his arse get kicked all school year long by the curriculum. The truth is he’s only a good student because he studies everything to an obsessive degree and does everything short of prostituting himself for any extra credit he can get his hands on. Hux tells her about Ren and the special project Sloane has given him, her promise of a letter of recommendation from Leia Organa. His mother waits for him to finish before giving him her perfunctory, “That’s wonderful, darling,” and, “I’m glad you’re making new friends.” 

The rest of the time, Hux ignores texts from Ren. He’d given Ren his number after a fair bit of wheedling, and now keeps getting inundated with updates on the goings-on in the Organa-Solo household: some family is coming over from upstate and several uncles have decided to show up to wreak havoc on the apple pie. Hux has half the mind to tell Ren to fuck off, he’s tired of hearing Ren’s running commentary on his family’s every dinner guest, but the familiar ping of a new message is somehow a strange comfort, even if Hux has to parse through a combination of emoji and badly abbreviated text. He lets his phone sit on the nightstand where it buzzes every fifteen minutes, and eventually he does read _all_ of Ren’s messages but never replies.

Ren finally gets the hint after, _hello? r u getting any of this?_ is met with silence. 

_happy thanksgiving hux,_ Ren sends, at midnight, and then there are no more messages after that.

 

* * *

 

It gets chillier in the morning so it takes Hux a while to be roused from sleep by anything other than his alarm. He’s back in bed in boarding school when he hears someone clambering through the window. He thinks he’s dreaming until the bed dips behind him, and then he’s suddenly pervaded by the warmth of someone sliding next to him under the covers, the smell of cut grass.

“Ren?” Hux asks, groggy.

“Hux,” Ren replies.

“Did you shut the window?”

Ren sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I did.” They’re quiet for such a long time that Hux almost nods back to sleep. 

“You didn’t respond to any of my texts,” Ren says after a moment. 

Hux does blink awake after that, and becomes entirely too aware of their proximity: Ren’s steady breaths, his clothes dampened by dew, the very ebb and flow of him, the hull of his body curved - _almost_ \- against Hux’s now-cold back, separated by a bare inch.

“There were quite a lot,” Hux admits. “Dozens.”

“Probably,” Ren agrees. “I told my mom about you over break, you know. She said she wants to thank you for helping me out. I told her you were like, this genius that hated everybody.”

“I’m not a genius,” Hux snorts, and then: “I don’t hate everybody.” At least, he thinks, that isn’t true anymore, not for Ren at least most of the time when he isn’t being an idiot.

“I’m kind of in love with you. I just thought you should know,” Ren says, without missing a beat, natural as anything that it takes Hux several moments to process what’s being said. He forgets to laugh and has to fight every instinct in his body telling him to flee.He tells himself he should have expected this from Ren. Ren who’s been in his periphery all this time but now has managed to weave himself into the fabric of Hux’s life, Ren with his big hands and big ears, making Hux feel instinctually protective, Ren with his total disregard of school policy, his shameless love for validation, like Hux, and incongruously, lacrosse. 

“I won’t kiss you or do anything weird, I promise. I just wanted to get that out,” Ren says when the unnameable silence that stretches around them becomes too difficult to bear, “I think you’re pretty great when you’re not screaming your head off and telling me I’m using the wrong formula.” 

Hux doesn’t say that he’s cottoned on, or _you don’t even know me, you can’t be in love with me_. And: _what does that even mean?_

They’re just kids anyway. It’s nothing, bullshit. Ren is talking out of his ass, and yet for whatever reason Hux can’t bring himself to say anything at all in response. He swallows, and then swallows again around that heady feeling of not being completely awake enough to make sense of anything. He keeps his back turned to Ren, and stares at the same spot on the wall. He wonders how one person can make him feel both simultaneously terrified and unmoored. He wonders how long Ren has been feeling this way about him.

Hux closes his eyes, and almost starts when Ren touches his waist, a tiny gesture, there under the covers, his fingers resting on the hem of Hux’s shirt, innocuous enough that it shouldn’t make Hux’s pulse jump or his heart judder up in his throat though they do anyway, against his volition. 

“I have a game on Friday. A practice match against New Republic. You should come,” Ren says to him, an edge to his otherwise quiet voice like he’s suddenly had enough. 

When Hux doesn’t reply, feigning sleep, Ren slips out of bed, using the door this time to make his escape. Hux doesn’t move for several minutes until he _does_ fall asleep eventually, dreaming of things in shocks and flashes that he forgets as soon as he wakes up in time for class. The only indication that Ren had actually visited him is the faint smear of mud and grass in a corner of the bed sheet which Hux is quick to brush off with his fingers.

 

 

* * *

 

Hux doesn’t meet Ren for their scheduled session later in the afternoon, and avoids him when he sees him at the mess hall the following morning, and the subsequent mornings after. Ren doesn’t text him. He’s doing fairly well on his own in Pre-Calc so Hux isn’t worried about his grades and if he ever fails again, Sloane can just pick somebody else to tutor him. He’ll tell her he’s been busy, juggling honours classes and creating a cushion for himself grade-wise. He’s so focused making an effort of ignoring Ren’s existence completely that when he does run into him when he’s trudging back from class on his way back to his dorm, he almost misses Ren running up towards him if Ren hadn’t called his name.

“Hux,” Ren says, stopping in front of him, hands on his knees. “Hey.” He’s from lacrosse practice; he’s wearing the jersey and everything and has to rip off his headgear so Hux can make sense of his words. 

“Are you coming to the game on Friday?” Ren asks, taking off his mouthguard. 

“Why?” Hux asks in disbelief. “Why would you want me there?”

“Why do you think?” Ren says. “For good luck.” He says it like he genuinely believes it too which is even worse. Hux has never been anyone’s source of luck. If anything, he seems to bring the opposite of it; his mother had him out of wedlock when she was just eighteen years old, two decades younger than Hux’s father. 

“You’re ignoring me,” Ren says, as if he’s only realizing this now, as if Hux hadn’t purposefully changed his routine in the last few days, eating his meals only minutes before the mess hall closes, studying in his room and keeping his window and door securely locked. 

“I’m just really busy,” Hux lies. He tries to affect it: slumping his shoulders, pretending to stifle a yawn though Ren looks like he doesn’t quite believe him, like he wants to laugh at Hux’s terrible acting but also shake Hux by the lapels of his uniform jacket until his head comes off his shoulders. 

But Ren does none of these things and nods instead, letting it go, walking backwards, away from Hux, before turning to leave. “All right,” he says, and that’s that: end of conversation. Hux wishes he didn’t feel like he’d missed something important.

“Wait! Ren!” 

Ren stops and does a half-turn and Hux realizes his mistake. 

“What?” Ren says. _What indeed_ , Hux thinks, and feels immediately stupid. His fists are clenched at his sides, his face burning with — what? Shame? Embarrassment? He doesn’t know. All he knows is he hates Ren for making him feel this way, unsure even of his own footing. That Ren looks at him with those eyes and has the power to make something inside Hux bend irreversibly to his will. That he’d confessed his love to him like it was an obvious fact just as the sky is blue and Hux is a grade-grubbing charlatan who cares about nothing else but getting the hell out of boarding school and into his dream university where he believes a better life for him is waiting to begin. None of this terrible mess that he finds himself so deeply entrenched in, after he’d made the mistake of letting Ren get under his skin.

“Nothing — I — _good luck_ ,” Hux says lamely. 

Ren raises his eyebrows at him, cocking his head to the side like he’s trying to get a read of Hux. “Thanks,” he mutters, shaking his head, probably seeing something in Hux’s expression that disappoints him. “I guess I’ll see you.”

Hux watches him go.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, Hux weakens. He shows up for the game and tells himself it’s to accompany Mitaka who’s doing a short article on the match for the school paper. He’s late to arrive on purpose, squeezing himself through rows and rows of people’s legs much to their annoyance. He seats himself next to Mitaka who has a notebook out like he’s a real journalist and has a flaglet gripped in his other hand. Everyone is in school colours except for Hux who’d showed up in the only clean sweater he owns, which happens to be in beige. He’d missed the memo apparently; frankly he can care less. School spirit can go to hell. 

“What did I miss?” he says, squinting down at the field. 

Mitaka points to the scoreboard: 2:2. 

“Close game,” he says. “But our boy Solo is looking good.”

Hux snorts. “Is he,” he says but finds it impossible not to watch him: darting across the field, weaving through the crush of bodies to score a goal. Surprisingly light on his feat, considering his size, and utterly ruthless. 

Mitaka looks at Hux for the first time since he’d arrived. “Didn’t you tutor him or something?”

_Or something_ , Hux thinks. “It’s for extra credit. He was failing Pre-Calc.”

Mitaka nods without really listening, throwing his hands up along with the crowd when their school scores a goal. Lacrosse has always eluded Hux, and so has his school’s love for it. As far as he’s concerned it’s just a bunch of sweaty guys tumbling across a field, hitting each other with sticks trying to get a ball into a net. Hux leaves during half-time, afraid Ren will find him watching in the stands in his awful beige sweater. He hears from Mitaka later that New Republic had won by a point, and that Ren is in the infirmary after having injured himself and gotten into a little fight. 

Hux leaves the rec room for the infirmary, where he finds Ren in one of the beds with his right foot propped on a pillow and wrapped in a bandage. He has a split lip but no black eye which should be a good sign but still Hux is unable to quell the fury shaking his hands.

“What happened to you?” he snaps. 

Ren looks up blearily from the bed. “I sprained my ankle. I think I over-exerted myself.” He smiles when Hux approaches, as if mildly surprised he’d visited at all. He’s probably the only one. Ren is unpopular among his peers and the only reason his team tolerates him is because he’s their best player and the coach’s favourite. Otherwise they talk about him behind his back, and Hux knows this because he’s heard some of the names they’ve called him. 

“Did you watch my game?” Ren asks. 

“Yes, but I left right away.”

“Probably why we lost to New Republic.” Ren shrugs. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Hux says, and has to stop himself from grabbing Ren by the shoulders. 

The truth is, Hux had been afraid to jinx the game, and by leaving maybe he’d managed to do exactly that. “Did you get into a fight?”he asks.

Ren’s lips thin which means, yes, yes he’d gotten into a fight. Hux shouldn’t care but he’s had enough of Ren being reckless and stupid. 

When Hux waits for Ren to elaborate, he says, kind of sheepishly, “I kind of tackled Poe Dameron when he tried to shake my hand.”

“Why?”

“I hate his smug face.”

“Do you always get into fights _just because_?” Hux feels his fuse ignite, burst into flame. “One of these days you’re going to get yourself kicked out of the lacrosse team or worse, _expelled_ , and there’ll be nothing your mother can do about it.”

“Well why are you yelling at me? He took it like a champ! Anyway, I’ll see him at the family dinner next week. It’s nothing. He can hit me back next time.”

“Ren!” Hux snaps, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

“ _What?_ ”

“You’re being an idiot,” Hux says, beginning a conversation he doesn’t know how to stop. He’s glad they’re alone for this, that the nurse knows to leave them well alone after she heard them starting to argue. “You don’t know that you’re in love with me,” he says, a little quieter now, embarrassed from having to say it at all. _Love,_ like it has any place at all in boarding school and they aren’t stupid kids thrown together by circumstance. 

“But I do,” Ren says, and his eyes are soft when he says it. “I _am_.” He reaches out a hand to Hux but Hux doesn’t take it and keeps himself standing by the foot of Ren’s bed with his fists by his sides. 

“Do you even like me?” Ren says, annoyed when Hux makes no attempt to come closer. 

“What do you think?” Hux scoffs.

“I never know with you.”

Hux doesn’t tell him he doesn’t know himself, either so it’s not Ren’s fault. 

“Come here,” Ren says. “Pour me some water.” Hux fights against every impulse to run and instead stands by the bed so he can do this for Ren, which he shouldn’t even be doing, because the glass and water bottle is well within Ren’s reach.He knows he’s stalling, not looking Ren in the eye as he attempts to execute this completely mundane task. And then Ren touches his wrist and clasps it, making him snap his head up to look at him. 

“ _What_.”

“Can I kiss you?” Ren asks.

Hux blinks dumbly at him for a moment. He chokes out a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry? What did you just say?”

“Can I kiss you?” Ren asks firmly, his voice sure and steady. He doesn’t miss a beat.

“I think you might have hit your head,” Hux says, but he’s thinking, _shit_ , _shit_. _Shit._

“Humor me then: can I kiss you?” Ren, starting to sound a little impatient. He doesn’t let Hux’s wrist go, and Hux doesn’t have the energy to pull it back, anyway, even though Ren’s grip is loose and he can always laugh it off and call him an idiot.

“Why are even you asking me? You’re going to do it anyway.”

“I don’t want you to run,” Ren says, shrugging, like it’s obvious. “Or hit me.” Then he adds, gently, “Or for you to turn into a pumpkin or something.”

“That’s not how the story goes,” Hux snorts.

“Does it matter?” Ren squeezes his wrist gently. “Hux,” he says. There’s a tenderness in his eyes too and it makes the panicky feeling inside Hux’s chest restless like a caged bird. He schools his face to look largely impassive. When it’s clear that there’s no running away from this, he stares directly at Ren’s face, overtaken by the thought of how quaint the shell of one ear looks, hidden behind the mess of his hair and backlit by the soft afternoon light. And his busted lip, and his obnoxious nose, and all of him down to his oversized hands, Hux looks at him for the first time and allows himself to appreciate every subtle nuance.

“I don’t like guys,” he says, staring at the fingers cuffing his wrist; it’s the closest he can get to the truth without lying. Hux doesn’t like most people, except, for some reason, Ren.

“Well, I don’t like other guys, either,” Ren says, shrugging. “I just like you.”

“So where does that leave us?” Hux says.

It startles a laugh out of Ren, and he leans in close, dragging Hux down by the forearm. Hux fights every instinct to run, to put up fists, but he feels a cataclysm coming, unmoored by the sentiment in Ren’s gaze, the way he gently takes Hux’s hand in his and folds them together before squeezing.

“Now can I kiss you?” Ren asks, and he sounds so earnest Hux doesn’t have the heart to turn him down. He nods, just the once, and Ren kisses him, his hands cradling Hux’s face, but this time, Hux doesn’t fight it the way he often does Ren’s hand on his shoulder, or any of his offhand touching. This time, he takes the kiss, and when Ren goes to pull away, Hux doesn’t let him, tipping forward so that Hux is standing at an awkward angle while Ren carefully maneuvers himself off the bed to wrap his hands around Hux’s waist. His lips are warm, his tongue is wet, and he smells like clean sweat and grass, a hint of bitterness in his mouth from what Hux guesses are probably painkillers. 

When they break for air, Hux’s eyes are swimming, and it takes maybe four blinks before the world is in sharp focus again. He shuts his eyes, hard, and hears Ren wincing when he jars his injured ankle. 

“Careful,” Hux warns. 

Ren just shrugs and props his foot back on the pillow. 

“I thought kissing you would kill me,” he says looking all too happy that he kisses Hux again, in the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, his jaw. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Hux huffs. 

“It can though,” Ren says. “Kill me,” he continues. “Because I’m looking at you right now, and I can’t fucking breathe. I mean, look at you. Just look at you.” He swipes a thumb over Hux’s chin, curling his big hand around his jaw. 

“You’re probably just horny,” Hux says, killing the mood, red in the face. _Idiot_ , he thinks, but somehow he can’t bring himself to say it. He can’t deny he isn’t similarly affected, that having Ren so close has him a little hard. And he’s warm, and already smells familiar, and the breadth of his shoulders makes Hux want to lean on them.

“Probably,” Ren sniffs, but he lets Hux go when the nurse returns.

“I’ll see you around, I guess,” Hux says before he leaves. He touches Ren’s good ankle, briefly. Ren gives Hux a strange half-smile, so cautious and hopeful that Hux’s has to swallow the tremble in his throat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They win against New Republic, 4:1. 

Class is canceled for the rest of the day as the rest of the school basks in a celebratory mood. The halls are awash with people wearing school colours, chatting about the game and most importantly about Ben Solo who’d been single-handedly responsible for the victory. Hux knows the truth in it: he’d been there the entire time, watching in the stands and bellowing his support, buoyed by a sense of school spirit though mostly something else, a lightness, maybe, in the chest ever since that day he’d let Ren kiss him. Even Mitaka had looked at him strangely when he’d showed up in a sweatshirt matching the school colours, making his bright hair stand out. 

Hux finds Ren in the bleachers, hours after the game, still wearing his jersey with his headgear sitting next to him. He looks up when Hux takes the empty seat on the other side of him, blinking out of his daze. He shouldn’t look so impressive in his jersey, grease streaking his cheeks black and smearing out into wings, hair matted down with sweat. Frankly, he should look ridiculous but there’s nothing about him at all that Hux would change. 

“Congratulations on the game.”

Ren blinks again. “Yeah, thanks,” he says, absently. He looks at Hux then smiles faintly, making Hux think for a second, _shit,_ _he’s going to kiss me._ Then Ren doesn’t at all and bumps his shoulder into Hux’s instead and Hux has to pretend he isn’t disappointed. He watches a flaglet in New Republic colours cartwheel across the field, carried by the breeze in a haphazard arc. He looks up when Ren touches his knee. 

“Did you come all the way here to look for me? To congratulate me personally?” Ren sounds so smug about it that Hux kind of wants to kick him in the shin and only resists doing so because he’s feeling oddly magnanimous — something to do with the way Ben is looking at him right now, body tilted in his direction. The breeze has made hell of his hair and Hux can see his ears, pale against the dark curtain of his hair, sticking out.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Hux rolls his eyes. “What are you still doing still out here anyway?” He’s heard on the way over that the lacrosse team is organizing some sort of celebration, that the seniors are smuggling in alcohol, and there may be girls too among other things. Snoke is letting them get away with it apparently because he’s in a lenient mood.

“Shouldn’t you be partying? I heard there was a party,” Hux says, though he already knows why Ren hadn’t been invited; he never is, and won’t come anyway, has too much pride for such things even when he’s his team’s best player, the only reason they stand a chance against the guys from New Republic. “You should be celebrating your hard-won victory. I mean, you won the game, you passed Pre-Calc—”

“ _Barely_ ,” Ren cuts in.

“You shouldn’t sell yourself short.”

“Fuck the party,” Ren says, and a squeeze to the knee is all Hux gets in warning before Ren starts kissing him, short and sweet, lasting only as long as a sigh.

It leaves Hux feeling heady anyway, his lips tingling from the residual warmth of Ren’s lips, his entire body strung like a live wire, waiting for even the smallest of touches. His skin ready for it, waiting, until Ren goes and kisses him again and says, “I can hear you thinking, stop thinking, Hux,” and Hux finally lets that part of his brain that constantly worries about things go quiet, giving into the feeling of not knowing where any of this is going but not caring either way. 

Vaguely, he wonders if it's always going to feel like this, like he's hurtling off a cliff without a parachute, or like his heart is on the precipice of something it can never reel back from. It's reckless, and completely outside the realm of his personality to be kissing Ren out in the open where anyone can see them and yet  Hux finds his hand balling into a fist in Ren's jersey, swallowing around a sigh that escapes him without permission.

“Yeah,” Hux agrees, and looks at Ren for the first time: the groove of his scar, his big nose, that soft infuriating mouth. “Fuck the party,” he says.

Ren smiles at him in answer, like that had been the right thing to say all along, and kisses him again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
